We’ve talked before about how characters shouldn’t extend each other’s metaphors. This is equally true for turning each other’s phrases, creating something that Englsh majors call “parallel construction.” On a recent episode of “Agents of SHIELD” (Yes, I’m still watching it. No, I’m not proud of that.) the perfect-hair-hacker confronted one of her fellow revolutionaries who had betrayed the cause, and they had this exchange:
“You’ve changed.”
“I know.”
“I mean, you’re not the person you were.”
“And you’re not the person I thought you were.”
After that third line, I thought, “Why would he rephrase what he just said? Then she said her line, and I just rolled my eyes: Oh, he did it to set up her line. One reason that this sort of thing doesn’t work is that people have different syntax. We build our sentences differently. It may be cute to turn their phrase, but it would come out all wrong if we actually tried it, because we’re not used to phrasing things in exactly that way.
Parallel construction is bad in a dialogue exchange, but it sounds just as bad when one character says the entire couplet. In a recent episode of “The Blacklist” (Yes, I’m still watching that one too. I need help.), James Spader is tracking down a killer using a dog hair from a crime scene, and he muses aloud to his henchman, “Dogs are not our whole life, but they do make some lives whole.” Ugh.
It’s a lot of fun to use that sort of parallel construction when you’re writing something down, and it’s fun to read. It’s creates a bit of additional meaning to take a turn of phrase and then turn it on its head, creating a “compare and contrast” moment, and giving your language a little poetic lilt.
But people don’t say that sort of thing out loud. Our brains just aren’t wired that way. We aren’t that conscious of how our words line up. Also, as I’ve said before, we talk with the assumption that we’re about to be interrupted, so we don’t set up elaborate constructions due to the fear that we won’t be able to finish them.
In real life, that exchange between Spader and his henchman would have gone something like this.
“Dogs are not our whole life, but—“
“—Yes they are. I love my dog.”
“I know you do, but—“
“—There’s no but about it. He’s my huggums-wuggums.”
“I know, I know, he’s a great dog, that was my whole point, asshole! If you hadn’t interrupted me, I would have said ‘but they do make some lives whole.’”
“Oh, I see what you were trying to do: ‘whole life / life whole’, that’s cute. You should write greeting cards.”
“Go eat a dick.”
My services are available, NBC. I await your call.
One last thought about An Education. I loved how un-Sorkinish it was.
There are a lot of reasons that I tend to dislike Aaron Sorkin’s writing, but here’s the biggest one: The Sorkin Stammer. Sorkin gives us scene after scene of this: Our hero, a smartass expert at some field or another, sits there and smirks listening to the criticisms of a bloviating blowhard, then unleashes a withering, fact-filled retort, which leaves the critic stammering helplessly as the expert calmly saunters away. What can the blowhard say, after all? When you’re right, you’re right!
Except that’s now how life works. Nine times out of ten, your opponent will simply interrupt you before you can lay down any facts, but on those rare occasions that people actually bother to listen to your whole clever list of rebuttals, it’s only because they’re ready to blindside you with something you failed to consider.
Carey Mulligan’s precocious teenage protagonist in An Education wants to live in a Sorkin universe, where her superior wit and smarts will allow her to reduce her critics to jelly, but she keeps forgetting that, even though she may have the higher IQ, she also has a limited perspective, and they can see things that she can’t see…because that’s always the case.
Let’s look at several times she tries to have the last word, and fails. First with David’s friends:
Then she tries it on her dad:
Her simple-minded father can’t think of any retort right away, but he leaves and comes back, apologizing, but also saying, “He wasn’t who he said he was. He wasn’t who you said he was either.”
And then she really meets her match:
Ouch. Even when her scene partner has no devastating comeback, they at least have the wherewithal to say some version or “Hey, it sucks that you’re trying to belittle me.”
And that’s how you have to treat your heroes. Don’t give them straw men to punch right though. Give them heavyweights that knock them flat.
Yesterday, we looked at one reason why the
“third act” of An Education is so short: the story isn’t as interesting once Jenny has dumped her con man fiance, and we don’t want to watch her study for her tests. That works out just fine. Nobody misses those beats, and the ending is still satisfying.
This was true in Nick Hornby’s script as well, but somewhat less so. Director Lone Scherfig is
extremely faithful to the script overall, but she cuts several exchanges out of the last part of the script, and replaces the last page entirely. These judicious cuts made the movie much better, and exemplified the importance of not allowing the characters to process the theme.
In the finished film, we end with Jenny, at Oxford, happily riding a bicycle through campus with a boy she seems to be dating, as we hear a voiceover (for the first time in the movie), saying that she tried to forget the whole thing, and one day, when a boy asked her to go to Paris with him, she said yes... “as if I’d never been.” Fade to black.
On the last page of the original script, we also have Jenny bicycling through Oxford, but then, one day...
This is way too much closure. What’s so great about the final onscreen
ending is that it’s haunting. She never expunges the ghost of
David, so he hovers over her whole life. She can pretend that it never
happened, but she’ll always know better.
Director Lone Scherfig knew she had a brilliant script on her
hands...but she also knew that the last page blew it, and a better last
page would make it a classic. She kept pushing until she found the last
page the movie needed.
But wait, we’re not done! Tomorrow, we derive a new rule from this movie, and what it does better than a certain Oscar-favorite screenwriter...
This is going to sound weird, but this movie’s heroine actually has a lot in common with Tony Stark. Both combine a hard-charging intellectual curiosity about the world with a near-fatal level of passivity and naivety about people close by that are plotting against them.
Deviation #1: The first and third acts are each ten minutes long, leaving room for a massive 2nd act, and the heroine is incurious and passive throughout almost all of that 2nd act., not investigating big clues, and allowing herself to be duped.
The Potential Problem: In theory, we should get fed up with Jenny’s failure to investigate big clues to David’s duplicity. Even when the truth comes out, it’s because she’s looking for a cigarette in his glove compartment, not because of any intentional poking around.
Does the Movie Get Away With It? Yes, and I’m not sure why. This is the ultimate “execution dependent” script. The astoundingly good performances that director Lone Scherfig gets from Carey Mulligan, Peter Sarsgaard, Alfred Molina, Dominic Cooper and Rosamund Pike make a very unsurprising, low-key movie into something lively, captivating and moving. But that’s not to sell Nick Hornby’s amazing screenplay short. This isn’t a movie about what happens (we can guess almost immediately), but about how each failsafe fails along the way, and how it all feels. How do a very smart girl and her very careful parents fall into such a blatantly wrong situation? The dialogue is so smart and incisive that the thin, passive plot isn’t a problem: it just gives us a chance to get a much deeper understanding of the hidden intricacies of a relatively-typical situation.
And one more…
Deviation #2: The movie is no longer as compelling or ironic after the twist.
The Potential Problem: This should kill the third act.
Does the Movie Get Away With It? Yes, but only by cutting the third act to ribbons. They know we don’t want to suddenly watch a movie about studying Latin, so the whole third act “a long way to go and a short time to get there” sequence is reduced to one quick montage, ending in an acceptance letter. This works just fine.
But wait, if you look at the script, you’ll find a significantly different third act. Let’s look at that tomorrow when we do our Rulebook Casefile for this movie...
Updated to the sixth and final version of the checklist!
Jenny Mellor is a bored Oxford-bound high school student in 1961 Britain who meets a flashy older man named David that whisks her off her feet, charming not just her but also her working class parents. When she finds out that he’s already married, it’s almost too late to get her life back on track.
PART
#1: CONCEPT 16/19
The Pitch: Does this concept excite everyone who
hears about it?
Is the
one sentence description uniquely appealing?
A clever-but-bored schoolgirl in
pre-Beatles London puts her Oxford dreams on hold when she meets a devilishly
charming older man.
Does
the concept contain an intriguing ironic contradiction?
She wants
an education, but doesn’t realize which kind she’ll get. The glamorous
sophisticates are lowly crooks.
Is this a story anyone can identify with, projected onto
a bigger canvas, with higher stakes?
Wanting to
get away from parents with dangerous older boy, but in this case much older,
and a career criminal. (That said, the stakes aren’t really that big, just
the usual: losing out on the chance to go to college.)
Story Fundamentals: Will this concept generate a
strong story?
Is the
concept simple enough to spend more time on character than plot?
Very much so. It’s
90% character.
Is
there one character that the audience will choose to be their “hero”?
Jenny
Does
the story follow the progress of the hero’s problem, not the hero’s daily
life?
Yes.
Does
the story present a unique relationship?
Not really…maybe with Jenny and the
other moll.
Is at
least one actual human being opposed to what the hero is doing?
Her family at
first, then her teachers once her family has been co-opted.
Does
this challenge represent the hero’s greatest hope and/or greatest fear and/or
an ironic answer to the hero’s question?
All three, the
question being “Is it really worth it to get an education?”
Does
something inside the hero have a particularly volatile reaction to the
challenge?
David clearly
kindles a spark of rebellion that was already in her.
Does
this challenge become something that is the not just hard for the hero to do (an obstacle) but hard for the hero
to want to do (a conflict)?
She feels she must
betray her family and mentor in order to seek love.
In the
end, is the hero the only one who can solve the problem?
Her family checks
out and her school washes their hands of it.
Does
the hero permanently transform the situation and vice versa?
No, she doesn’t
permanently transform the situation: We sense that
he’ll keep doing it. Everything sets back to zero for both of them. But yes,
she is very much transformed, though she almost convinces herself it never
happened.
The
Hook: Will this be marketable and generate word of mouth?
Does
the story satisfy the basic human urges that get people to buy and recommend
this genre?
Sort of. It substitutes aesthetic
pleasures for sexual, romantic, or crime pleasure. It’s entirely
execution-dependent.
Does
this story show us at least one image we haven’t seen before (that can be
used to promote the final product)?
Not really. Just a
lot of great clothes. Maybe him driving alongside her with the cello, a
little bit.
Is
there at least one “Holy Crap!” scene (to create word of mouth)?
Not really.
Somewhat, where he wants to deflower her with fruit.
Does
the story contain a surprise that is not obvious from the beginning?
We know it’s
coming, but we haven’t guessed how bad it’ll be.
Is the
story marketable without revealing the surprise?
Somewhat. It’s
heavily implied.
Is the
conflict compelling and ironic both before and after the surprise?
Not really, but
that’s fine. Nobody wants to see her knuckle down and study, so the story
wraps up very quickly after the reveal.
PART
#2: CHARACTER 20/22
Believe:
Do we recognize the hero as a human being?
Does
the hero have a moment of humanity early on? (A funny, or kind, or oddball,
or out-of-character, or comically vain, or unique-but-universal “I thought I
was the only one who did that!” moment?)
Funny: her
sarcastic put-downs of her father.
Is the
hero defined by ongoing actions and attitudes, not by backstory?
No backstory,
except “years of studying”
Does
the hero have a well-defined public identity?
The good girl.
Does
the surface characterization ironically contrast with a hidden interior self?
She’s fed up with
her life, ready to experiment.
Does
the hero have a consistent metaphor family (drawn from his or her job,
background, or developmental state)?
Drawn from her
ambition: she tosses in bits of French and pseudo-intellectual words.
Does
the hero have a default personality trait?
Coolly watchful and
quietly sarcastic.
Does
the hero have a default argument tactic?
Faux naïve, but
with a withering use of evidence of the other’s hypocrisy or ignorance.
Is the
hero’s primary motivation for tackling this challenge strong, simple, and
revealed early on?
She’s bored out of
her mind, as established by the opening montage.
Care:
Do we feel for the hero?
Does
the hero start out with a shortsighted or wrongheaded philosophy (or accept a
false piece of advice early on)?
False advice: her
father would say there’s no point to going to concerts. He also says that
Oxford doesn’t want people who think for themselves.
Does
the hero have a false or shortsighted goal in the first half?
Get into Oxford.
Seems like a false goal, then turns out to be true after all.
Does
the hero have an open fear or anxiety about his or her future, as well as a
hidden, private fear?
Public: That she
won’t get into University. Private: That she’ll be as dull and
unsophisticated as her mother and father.
Is the
hero physically and emotionally vulnerable?
Yes.
Does
the hero have at least one untenable great flaw we empathize with? (but…)
Duplicity,
contempt, gullibility
Invest:
Can we trust the hero to tackle this challenge?
…Is that great flaw (ironically) the natural
flip-side of a great strength we admire?
Intellectual
ambition, biting wit, tolerance
Is the
hero curious?
Yes about life in general, but only
occasionally about her own situation. She refuses to investigate big clues.
Why isn’t this more frustrating for the audience? I don’t know.
Is the
hero generally resourceful?
She can always finagle what she wants.
Does
the hero have rules he or she lives by (either stated or implied)?
Study hard, be
smarter than others, get ahead, but she rejects #1 early on.
Is the
hero surrounded by people who sorely lack his or her most valuable quality?
At first. All of
her friends, family, and teachers seem dull. Then she subsumes herself to the
crooks, unwilling to outshine them, though she could if she tried.
…And
is the hero willing to let them know that, subtly or directly?
In muttered
sarcastic asides, yes.
Is the
hero already doing something active when we first meet him or her?
Yes, she’s studying
hard, lugging her cello around, etc.
Does
the hero have (or claim) decision-making authority?
She manages to be
quite free-living despite her restrictive surroundings.
Does
the hero use pre-established special skills from his or her past to solve
problems (rather than doing what anybody would do)?
Sort of. She uses her knowledge of
classical music and art to get into a tonier world, but that creates more
problems than it solves.
PART
#3: STRUCTURE (If the story is about the solving of a large problem) 17/21
1st
Quarter: Is the challenge laid out in the first quarter?
When
the story begins, is the hero becoming increasingly irritated about his or
her longstanding social problem (while still in denial about an internal
flaw)?
She’s massively
bored.
Does
this problem become undeniable due to a social humiliation at the beginning
of the story?
Nice boy Graham
bores the heck out of her on their date, disappoints her father.
Does
the hero discover an intimidating opportunity to fix the problem?
She gets hit on by
a rich guy who can make Elgar jokes.
Does
the hero hesitate until the stakes are raised?
She won’t get in
the car, at first.
Does the hero commit to pursuing the opportunity by the
end of the first quarter?
Beforehand really.
This movie has a very long 2nd act: she’s committed by ten minutes
in.
2nd
Quarter: Does the hero try the easy way in the second quarter?
Does
the hero’s pursuit of the opportunity quickly lead to an unforeseen conflict
with another person?
No. Her parents put up feeble,
half-hearted resistance. The true antagonist in this movie is the general
notion of propriety, which nobody really stands up for (except her teacher
when it’s too late) but which turns out to be well worth heeding.
Does
the hero try the easy way throughout the second quarter?
Almost for the
entire story.
Does
the hero have a little fun and get excited about the possibility of success?
Very much so. They
have delightful trips to Oxford and Paris.
Does the
easy way lead to a big crash around the midpoint, resulting in the loss of a
safe space and/or sheltering relationship?
Sort of. When she
realizes they’re crooks, she tries briefly to flee.
3rd
Quarter: Does the hero try the hard way in the third quarter?
Does
the hero try the hard way from this point on?
No. She ignores evidence of further
criminality and becomes more delusional throughout the 3rd
quarter.
Does
the hero find out who his or her real friends and real enemies are?
Eventually, yes.
All relationships are turned on their heads, except with the headmistress.
Do the
stakes, pace, and motivation all escalate at this point?
He proposes
marriage.
Does
the hero learn from mistakes in a painful way?
After the reveal,
very much so.
Does a
further setback lead to a spiritual crisis?
She finds out that
he’s married.
4th
Quarter: Does the challenge climax in the fourth quarter?
Does
the hero adopt a corrected philosophy after the spiritual crisis?
Reacting to
teacher’s place, “I’d love to live someplace like this…That’s all you need,
isn’t it?”
After
that crisis, does the hero finally commit to pursuing a corrected goal, which
still seems far away?
She becomes determined to get into
Oxford without a high school degree.
Before
the final quarter of the story begins, (if not long before) has your hero
switched to being proactive, instead of reactive?
No. She switches very late. The ‘third act” is only ten
minutes, as was the first act.
Despite
these proactive steps, is the timeline unexpectedly moved up, forcing the
hero to improvise for the finale?
Essentially. The
timeline doesn’t move, but she has a big setback, when she is denied the
chance to return to school, forcing her to do it on her own.
Do all
strands of the story and most of the characters come together for the
climactic confrontation?
No. A final confrontation with David
was in the script but was wisely cut out.
Does
the hero’s inner struggle climax shortly after (or possible at the same time
as) his or her outer struggle?
It is only after
she’s been at Oxford for a while that forgives herself and put the affair in
the proper context.
Is
there an epilogue/ aftermath/ denouement in which the challenge is finally
resolved (or succumbed to), and we see how much the hero has changed
(possibly through reversible behavior)
She’s happy at
Oxford, with a new boy, pretending that she’s never been to Paris.
PART
#4: SCENEWORK 17/20 (Jenny is amazed as David gets permission from
her parents to take her on a weekend trip to Oxford by claiming to know C.S.
Lewis)
The
Set-Up: Does this scene begin with the essential elements it needs?
Were
tense and/or hopeful (and usually false) expectations for this interaction
established beforehand?
She was dubious
that he could pull it off, worried when she heard his voice downstairs.
Does
the scene eliminate small talk and repeated beats by cutting out the
beginning (or possibly even the middle)?
She walks in
halfway through.
Is
this an intimidating setting that keeps characters active?
Somewhat. The
liquor is out, which it never is. He’s in his enemy’s lair.
Is one
of the scene partners not planning to have this conversation (and quite
possibly has something better to do)?
Jenny wants to
study her homework.
Is
there at least one non-plot element complicating the scene?
The Goon Show, etc.
Does
the scene establish its own mini-ticking-clock (if only through subconscious
anticipation)?
No, they have all night to convince
the dad.
The
Conflict: Do the conflicts play out in a lively manner?
Does this scene both advance the plot and reveal
character through emotional reactions?
Both. Jenny is
disquieted. Parents are flattered and overwhelmed.
Does
the audience have (or develop) a rooting interest in this scene (which may
sometimes shift)?
We’re on Jenny’s
side as she hopes David succeeds, but feels a little scared of David’s
ability to lie so well.
Are
two agendas genuinely clashing (rather than merely two personalities)?
David wants to
screw her, dad wants to protect her.
Does
the scene have both a surface conflict and a suppressed conflict (one of
which is the primary conflict in this scene)?
Surface: can Jenny
go to Oxford? Suppressed: can I sleep with her? Do you want to live
vicariously through our liberation?
Is the
suppressed conflict (which may or may not come to the surface) implied
through subtext (and/or called out by the other character)?
Yes.
Are
the characters cagy (or in denial) about their own feelings?
David and Jenny are
lying, and dad doesn’t want to admit how scared he is of leaving home.
Do
characters use verbal tricks and traps to get what they want, not just direct
confrontation?
Very much so. David
traps the parents using their own insecurities, traps Jenny into lying to
them.
Is
there re-blocking, including literal push and pull between the scene partners
(often resulting in just one touch)?
Not really. They’re British. The dad
touches his wife’s hand once at the very end, signaling he’s made his
decision.
Are
objects given or taken, representing larger values?
Not really, though he may have brought
them the alcohol.
The
Outcome: Does this scene change the story going forward?
As a
result of this scene, does at least one of the scene partners end up doing
something that he or she didn’t intend to do when the scene began?
Parents agree to
the trip.
Does
the outcome of the scene ironically reverse (and/or ironically fulfill) the
original intention?
David gets them to
insist on it, and he “reluctantly” agrees.
Are
previously-asked questions answered and new questions posed?
How will he convince
her parents? What does he expect from her on the trip?
Does
the scene cut out early, on a question (possibly to be answered instantly by
the circumstances of the next scene)?
“It wouldn’t be a bother, would it, David?”
Is the
audience left with a growing hope and/or fear for what might happen next?
(Not just in the next scene, but generally)
Yes, we’re anticipating a thrilling
time for our heroine but dreading the downfall even more now that we know her
parents can’t protect her.
PART
#5: DIALOGUE 13/16
Empathetic:
Is the dialogue true to human nature?
Does
the writing demonstrate empathy for all of the characters?
Very much so. We
feel a different type of empathy for each of the three crooks, for instance.
Does
each of the characters, including the hero, have a limited perspective?
Very much so. The
amazing thing is that we come to share her limited perspective, to a certain
extent, despite the fact that this story and its outcome are so familiar.
Do the
characters consciously and unconsciously prioritize their own wants, rather
than the wants of others?
Very much so. All
except the teacher, but even she wants to live vicariously through Jenny’s
academic success (as opposed to everyone else, who all live vicariously
through her transgression.)
Are
the characters resistant to openly admitting their feelings (to others and
even to themselves)?
The final apology
from her father is heartbreakingly delivered through a closed door.
Do the
characters avoid saying things they wouldn’t say and doing things they
wouldn’t do?
Very much so. All
of the descriptions of crime are very oblique.
Do the
characters interrupt each other often?
Not really. They’re British—a little
more civilized.
Specific: Is the dialogue specific to this world
and each personality?
Does
the dialogue capture the jargon and tradecraft of the profession and/or
setting?
Crime is always “a
bit of business.” Tradecraft: The “stats” scam, for instance.
Are
there additional characters with distinct metaphor families, default
personality traits, and default argument strategies from the hero’s?
Metaphor
Family: David: Childhood: “You’re
my Minnie-Mouse and I’m your Bubbalub.” About her breasts: “May I have a
look? Just a peek?”. Personality Trait: The dad: embarrassed, obsequious, indignant. David:
blithe, blank, seductive.. Argument
Strategies: The dad: focusing on tiny potential
obstacles. David: self-deprecating flattery.
Heightened:
Is the dialogue more pointed and dynamic than real talk?
Is the
dialogue more concise than real talk?
“I suppose you think I’m a fallen woman.” “Oh, you’re not a
woman.”
Does
the dialogue have more personality than real talk?
Yes.
Are
there minimal commas in the dialogue (the lines are not prefaced with Yes,
No, Well, Look, or the other character’s name)?
Somewhat. It’s a very formal time, and
the conversations are somewhat formal.
Do
non-professor characters speak without dependent clauses, conditionals, or
parallel construction?
Mostly. As with all screenplays
written by novelists, there are a few.
Are
the non-3-dimensional characters impartially polarized into head, heart and
gut?
All characters are
3-dimensional.
Strategic: Are certain dialogue scenes withheld
until necessary?
Does
the hero have at least one big “I understand you” moment with a love interest
or primary emotional partner?
Sort
of: With her teacher.
Is
exposition withheld until the hero and the audience are both demanding to
know it?
Yes.
Is
there one gutpunch scene, where the subtext falls away and the characters
really lay into each other?
A sequence of them:
Her teacher finally lays into her, she finally lays into her parents,
headmistress devastates her.
Part #6: Tone 9/10
Genre:
Does the story tap into pre-established expectations?
Is the
story limited to one genre (or multiple genres that are merged from the
beginning?)
The romantic
melodrama.
Is the
story limited to sub-genres that are compatible with each other, without
mixing metaphors?
The period
coming-of-age story.
Does
the ending satisfy most of the expectations of the genre, and defy a few
others?
Satisfies almost
all. She doesn’t realize the boring boy is right for her, but that’s not
universal in these movies.
Separate
from the genre, is a consistent mood (goofy, grim, ‘fairy tale’, etc.)
established early and maintained throughout?
The opening montage
establishes the threat of boredom, and music establishes the potential joy of
liberation.
Framing:
Does the story set, reset, upset and ultimately exceed its own expectations?
Is
there a dramatic question posed early on, which will establish in the
audience’s mind which moment will mark the end of the story?
Will she get into
Oxford?
Does the story use framing devices to establish
genre, mood and expectations?
No. Narration doesn’t kick in until
the very end.
Are
there characters whose situations prefigure various fates that might await
the hero?
Very much so. She’s
terrified of becoming her teachers, her parents, and Helen the moll.
Does
foreshadowing create anticipation and suspense (and refocus the audience’s
attention on what’s important)?
Lots of hints of
disaster.
Are
reversible behaviors used to foreshadow and then confirm change?
She fails a Latin test. Poorly preps dull boy Graham for a
meeting with parents. She’ll do better with David, and finally pass that
Latin test at the end.
Is the
dramatic question answered at the very end of the story?
She gets into
Oxford.
PART
7: THEME 14/14
Difficult:
Is the meaning of the story derived from a fundamental moral dilemma?
Can
the overall theme be stated in the form of an irreconcilable good vs. good
(or evil vs. evil) dilemma?
Glamour vs.
responsibility
Is a
thematic question asked out loud (or clearly implied) in the first half, and
left open?
Is an academic or
illicit life more fulfilling?
Do the
characters consistently have to choose between goods, or between evils,
instead of choosing between good and evil?
The condemnations
of David are tinged with anti-Semitism, forcing her to choose between
tolerance and self-protection.
Grounded:
Do the stakes ring true to the world of the audience?
Does
the story reflect the way the world works?
Very much so. It’s
very low key.
Does
the story have something authentic to say about this type of setting (Is it
based more on observations of this type of setting than ideas about it)?
Very much so. It’s
a true story.
Does
the story include twinges of real life national pain?
It’s a true story
about the birth of the modern feminism, the prison of suburbia,
anti-Semitism, etc.
Are
these issues and the overall dilemma addressed in a way that avoids moral
hypocrisy?
Yes.
Do all
of the actions have real consequences?
She can’t get back
into her school.
Subtle: Is the theme interwoven throughout so
that it need not be discussed often?
Do
many small details throughout subtly and/or ironically tie into the thematic
dilemma?
They’re reading
Jane Eyre (in which Rochester is secretly married), playing Elgar music
(who’s anti-Semitic), etc.
Are
one or more objects representing larger ideas exchanged throughout the story,
growing in meaning each time?
The C.S. Lewis
book, the map, the engagement ring, the
letters, etc. The cello represents the burden of her education,
David’s able to admire it and offer his car to it when he meets Jenny, making
him seem less lecherous, etc.)
Untidy:
Is the dilemma ultimately irresolvable?
Does
the ending tip towards one side of the thematic dilemma without resolving it
entirely?
Responsibility is
ultimately better than the glamour. (But given that everything turned out
okay, you suspect that she doesn’t really have any regrets)
Does
the story’s outcome ironically contrast with the initial goal?
The education she
tried to reject actually leads her back to the life of sophistication she
wanted, but she has to pretend she hasn’t already had it.
In the
end, is the plot not entirely tidy (some small plot threads left unresolved,
some answers left vague)?
What was his plan?
Bigamy? A phony marriage? Leave his wife? We never know.
Do the
characters refuse (or fail) to synthesize the meaning of the story, forcing
the audience to do that?
The original script
contained much more recriminations in the third act, but in the finished
film, most of those questions land in the viewer’s lap, which is better.